


Two Kinds

by Lollytree



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Eventual Smut, Gen, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Magical Mystery Tour, Nostalgia, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:29:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24721600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lollytree/pseuds/Lollytree
Summary: While filming the Magical Mystery tour, John struggles with Paul related comforts.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	Two Kinds

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by magical mystery tour info and other Beatles nonsense, but of course this is all fiction!

It comes back to India — again and again and again. John watches the others argue.

“We should just go,” George says once more, scratching his ever-present mustache. The movement makes John’s bare upper lip tickle like a phantom itch. It’s the first time George struck out on his own, keeping his ‘Pepper mustache, and ignoring his or Paul’s decision on hair.

“The culture is so different from ours,” George continues. “They’re deeper and know things on a philosophical level. We need that now.”

Now, now, now because Brian is dead and they might as well join him. In the land of spirits, maybe they’d figure out how to survive.

 _Maybe we ought to just go_ , John says to himself. But Paul looks tired — his already sleepy shaped eyes, blanket soft and warm, blink rapidly and John can tell he’s gearing up to win the argument. They’re all exhausted from this week.

“Listen,” Paul says, and rubs his face. “We’ve already agreed to stay here and do the Mystery Tour. Then, we'll go to India.”

When George sighs, Paul is cooing and reassuring him. He likes to believe, Paul does, everything will turn sunshine and moon and heavens. Suppose all characters in love songs run like that.

“But what about NEMS office? And the staff?” Trust good ol’ Ringo to neither care if they choose the album or India. _I’m up for either!_ John smiles for the first time in this soapbox meeting.

Even as they discuss business, like Brian’s company, Paul is hopeful all the cogs — _or fags_ — will be in place. “Eppy kept that in order. There’s no need to rock the boat, when we got so much to do. Let’s stick to one thing at a time.”

Figures Brian would croak as the Beatles float to the very tippy-pop-top, so far above everyone else it’s practically a joke. _We almost fucking had it_ , John inwardly thinks.

“And what about a manager?” he questions, unable to hide the hot air rising. “How are we goin’ to run all that nonsense…” How are they to exist without a contender in their corner, like that Muhammad Ali kid they met years ago with boxing gloves — bam, bam, bam.

Maybe it won’t very much matter since Brian had been soft-handed, anyway. But soft bellied to roll over and beg for them, _for him_ , and what’s supposed to happen now, what will they…

Paul meets his gaze. Can he still read his mind? For a moment, John hopes he can’t and squirms in his seat, finding it embarrassingly uncomfortable how much more stable his partner seems while their world sits in pieces.

“I reckon we don’t need a new manager. We’re no longer touring. And we’ve always made our own decisions about records and films. Right?” Paul turns to each one of them. John silently wonders if the others feel as buoyed when Paul’s eyes met theirs.

And like a row of lost ducks, right-mum-right, they say yes.

* * *

He’s only a smidge hungover as he waits outside shoulder-to-shoulder with George and Ringo, _the three suburban Beatles,_ for the mystery bus to pick them up, like they're headed to a cellar gig instead of grassy countryside meadows.

 _Yep, sure to be plenty of grass_ , John hums.

He is grateful he didn’t get too drunk the other night. Paul had groaned in his ear they didn’t want anyone puking on the bus.

“At least not the first day.” Paul smiled, after elbowing him. “That sounds like a third kind of day.”

John was on the cusp of making a joke about their many gross methods of transportation, but before he could pick a favorite, in a red-head-flash Jane rushed to Paul’s side, worried over something. “Pardon me,” Jane breathed politeness, scooting past him. “Paul, could I borrow you for a moment?” Ever since she returned from her acting stint, she’d been a right pain in John’s arse. Soaking up Paul’s time when there’s clearly more important band matters. John thought she’d buzz off for good the last time she’d left, but apparently not.

Then, the _gay_ couple spun down the hall to another wing of Cavendish. He swore he could hear the echo of their argument, just like when Martha’s sheep-dog-sensibility anticipates someone about to knock-knock-knock on the door. _Ugh_.

Caught like a barbed fish on his own hook, and nothing left to do, he sullenly turned to the rest of the scrambled egg party: the farewell getup Jane planned for Paul, even though they’d probably only be gone _a week at most_ for this portion of filming. Ringo and George hadn’t even shown, opting to spend alone time with their wives, and John wondered how horrid he must be for not once considering that option.

Mother-hen-Jim-McCartney and Mike also appeared, and wasn’t that a memory-cluster-fuck? They ambled around, making sure Paul would be nice and tidy on his journey. _Will you ‘ave enough to eat, son? — Sure, sure, it’s all mapping out._ God, had the man ever had an unloved moment in his life?

But before he could get good and irritated, Mr. McCartney, _no not Paul_ , was petting him and he mechanically leaned into the paternal well-wishes.

“And you’ll be sure to take care of yerself too, eh?”

“Right, right.” John nodded, feeling a tad awkward. There were few people remaining on Earth who hold the power to make him feel like a kid.

“I’ll hold you to it.” Jim pointed a stern finger. “Can’t have half the Beatles carted away.”

Half the Beatles. Lennon and McCartney — the two shiny ones — John wondered what Jim thought of his name, toted around the world alongside his own bastardly surname. If once upon a time the old man didn’t care for him, well, they’re forever tied together now, like a knock off business model. Lennon McCartney Co... Lennon, McCartney, & Son… Lennon-McCartney, I want to fuck your son… John shook his head, brain jiggling after him.

“Didn’t much care if I dropped off, not too long ago,” he reminded, lightheartedly of course. He no longer held the taste for provoking parents. That sport had run dry. Maybe since he’d won all the contests, anyway. No matter how often he’d been shooed away, didn’t he successfully get Paul to pitch up and leave with him?

“That’s so… didn’t care much for this at first.” Jim cocks his head in agreement. “I know first-hand how music can be rather heartbreaking.”

“Didn’t care much at _all_ you mean.” 

Jim’s face morphed into a serious expression. “You have a child of your own, one day you’ll understand.”

John laughed at the paradox he stood in. “And what’ll that entail?”

“Well, naturally a parent worries who’s taking their kids away.”

“Paul?” He rolled his eyes. “Can’t take him anywhere.”

But Jim watched him intently. “You were a real thorn in my side,” he said, sincerely. “In a nightfall, it went from a regular ol’ John type, to _John_ says this, _John_ says that. John, John, John. Like praying to a bloody pope.”

He instantly remembered that version of Paul — easily corruptible baby faced Paul who’d snatch him golden records, not the one who took months and months and months to finally decide and drop acid with him. Maybe that Paul was still locked away somewhere in his pretty Beatles shell. But since he belonged to the whole-spread-eagle-world, does Paul even remember? Or was it lost forever, like how all childhood corners suddenly disappear?

“Jealous of a grotty teenager?” He forced a smile.

Jim only shook his head. Still looking. “No, just worried. He liked you too much.”

His stomach dipped again.

“Reckon he still does,” Jim continued. “Says you two still have more of the world to conquer. I’m glad he didn’t listen to me, after all.” Jim clapped him on the shoulder, and headed toward the scotch table. The man never did linger long, rather more occupied than aloof, and for a moment John was irritated all over again; recognizing the similarly grown trait in Paul.

The party ended like that.

John sighs, and looks at the gray sky. Maybe England will finally do him a favor, and it’ll rain this whole week. Maybe they can rest in-doors for a few days… just for a little while. Although, he knows that’ll never be a real option. Paul would go bonkers and dump a pile of songs on his lap. _Here John, I’ve finished. Up, up, up._

Anyway, it’s not like he doesn’t want to do the film. It’s zany, yet more real than any other film they’ve done, and they won’t stand as side-characters in their own production.

Thankfully, he bid an adequate farewell to Cyn and Julian. One less thing to worry about. And no girls crowded his gate today, there was no need to brush anyone off. Besides, they’re never as thick in number as the ones worshipping Paul’s busy London house; thick in number; thick on the arse, because Paul always pulls the doable birds.

Nor did his number one fan show her face. But for good reason.

Yoko, that batshit bird, who was kind of funny in a bizarre sort of way, would have wondered where he was, due to the logical fact she was always trailing after him. For some reason, he’d felt a pang of guilt at the thought — imagining her checking all his known spots and wondering where he’d gone missing. He told Yoko they’d be traveling, only so she wouldn’t fly over the moon about it. Her dark lashes fluttered prettily, as she _thanked him_ for being considerate, and he actually shook his head to get himself properly sorted. Nutty, that one.

“Think I’m catching a cold,” Ringo sniffs, breaking the silence and interrupting John’s thoughts of dark hair. Funny how once upon a time, so very far away, Bridgette-blonde was all his rage.

George snickers. “That so, Rich? Maybe we ought to duck it and get’chu to a doctor, ‘stead.” 

“Paul would be ringing the office, telling them to send you packing ‘fore they even got a look at that beak of yours.”

“Aw no comfort from you. Don’t want to sound clogged on camera, like I got me’ foot in me’ mouth. You know your voice can add ten pounds.” Ringo’s grin is toothy-wide, and John is sentimental enough to imagine their last two films together. These loons.

But George cuts in sharp. “Don’t worry. There's hardly any lines, anyway _._ We'll just be running circles.”

“That’s the point, innit?” John prickles, instantly growing scratchy and defensive of Paul, of _them_. “The circle script… it’s conceptual, Georgie. It’s not supposed to be normal.” Explaining in the same voice he’d use when they were itty-bitty, and George knew nothing at all; zit covered and virginal.

George sighs and turns away, just as the brightly colored bus rolls down the road.

“Here we are.” John is unable to stop smiling at the absurdity — _a fucking bus._

The bus halts, doors quickly flinging open, and Paul ambles down with the same jumpy pep they had while descending from airplanes to hordes of rabid reporters and fans.

“All ‘board the mystery train,” Paul beams, and outstretches a hand. “Please watch your step. No animals on deck, ‘cept you three exceptions.”

“ _Exceptionals_ , you mean. For me, at least?”

“Aye ‘nough of that,” says Paul, swatting his back as John climbs the steps.

Riding the bus turns out to be rather magical… at least some parts. He’d been wedged next to George on the first day, who remained rather mopey, staring out the window for most of the journey, while Paul smirked and winked next to a pretty girl, whose name he didn’t catch. In fact, John wonders where this whole strange crowd sitting and smoking came from. These rented people. Are they all hired actors, or mostly folks herded off the street? Very fairylike. Very Paul- _like_ , is more _like_ it.

Now, it’s only the second day, and they’re already stuck on a narrow bridge. And no amount of squeezing seems to be working. Cars honking behind them.

“This is _your_ luck of the Irish, isn’t it, brethren McCartney?” John sighs. “Figures we’d rope in a shit leprechaun with this ‘lot.” He looks back at the bus dwellers, growing restless and arguing amongst their selves, having been stuck for a half-an-hour.

“Don’t blame this on me,” Paul huffs. “It was supposed to be a short cut, Alf didn’t know it’d be a country bridge.” He’d been seated next to him this time round. _Good lad._

John gazes out the window, and sees handy-dandy Mal trying to direct the traffic building up. Men yelling at him from their cars.

“Bugger, they’re goin’ to kill us.”

“Maybe they’re fans,” Paul says dryly, peering over his shoulder. 

Turning, he chuckles. “Mobs are _our_ particular specialty.”

Paul leans back in the seat and smiles at him, gooey-warm like chocolate cake. “Funny one, that John Lennon is.”

He shrugs, feeling inches taller, even though he’s read that about himself in newspapers since ‘64. John clears the pesky frog in his throat. “Reckon we won’t make it in time.”

Their plans to film at a country fair seem moot at this point.

“Guess not.” Paul’s nose crinkles, in thought. “It’s a shame to waste morning shots.”

Some might call noon ‘morning,’ if you were a Beatle and creepy crawling all hours of the evening. They’d stayed up late last night; Paul returning from a solo press conference, and standing by his door as they yawned and planned ideas for film, before retiring to his shared room with Ringo. _Moot_.

“This could make a good song,” John says, sensing a pluck of sudden inspiration. It caught him off guard, but there was a certain familiarity in the air. “Caught between a bridge.”

“Are we on a bridge, or are we on a metaphor?” Paul philosophizes in a mock intellectual voice, stroking a pretend beard.

“Why not both.” John looks around for a piece of paper.

“I think we’re just on a bus,” Paul laughs, and knocks into his arm. “Remember writing ‘From Me To You’ on Helen Shapiro’s coach? Everyone asking us to shut up so they could sleep?”

It’s a lightning bolt of image: him and Paul bony knees bent on a cramped tour bus, guitars mirrored, fooling around with a melody that suddenly turned gold. Too bleeding young, just the two of them, Julian hadn’t even been born yet, success cackling like electricity at their feet. John realizes where his current inspiration is flowing from, and feels woozy. Memories sure are a petty bitch.

“And all credit due to the ‘From You to Us’ column,” John hums, thinking back to the magazine that gave them the idea. Sweet words always caught their eyes in those early days.

_Just call on me and I’ll send it along, with love, from me to you._

“Real readers we were.” His hands finally locate a notebook, stashed in the seat pocket.

“That we were,” Paul says, and grows quiet for a moment. “Hey! We should be filming this, it could be interesting… an _unexpected_ turn of events...” He bounces out of his seat, and rushes toward the back. “Neil!”

John tosses the notebook on the ground, and jerks from his seat as well, but instead heads for the door. “Nice mess you’ve got us in!” John hisses at the sweaty bus driver — Falf, or loaf, or whatever the hell’s his name. Paul didn’t think of pretty name-tags.

“Oy, where you going?” George calls.

“To help move those fuckers back.”

* * *

Hours after returning from the beach, John is still brushing sand from his hair. But the Bay is the loveliest place they’ve filmed so far, and evidently worth the possible sand fleas. After the windy morning, he spent rest of the day filming his own scenes, while Paul and Ringo took a coach of passengers on a separate adventure. He wonders what kind of ruckus they caused.

“Four flats to spare, for four little mice,” John says, as he strolls into Paul’s bedroom, not bothering to knock, but locking the door after him all the same. “Aren’t we mighty.”

“It’s been a bit crowded, hasn’t it?” Paul nose wrinkles, not seeming at all surprised by his entry, as he sits down on the single bed. “Being alone for a moment ain’t-too-bad.”

_Alone together. Ain’t it a wonderful thing._

“Why’d we join a traveling circus, again?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, for a concert or film or some rubbish. I forget.” Paul cocks his head smiling, and kicks off his shoes. “Speaking of, how’d the Rubber Man scene go?”

He shrugs. His mind wandering from the vibration of filming, to contemplate of the soft hum of the room. “Good.”

“Yeah?”

“It was groovy, man,” John pulls his best American accent.

“ _Stellar_ ,” Paul imitates back, then turns serious again. “Really, everythin’ went alright?"

He pauses, and watches Paul watching him. A burn goes up his spine. “And how’d _your_ scenes go, oh director?”

“John, I was just curious,” he sighs, looking a tad too much like a teacher. “And my scenes went fine as well. Sorry, I got to shoot with the little man, and you got all the birds in bikinis. What a drag for you.”

“Fuck off.”

Paul laughs and rolls his eyes, but they look extra awake. “George didn’t shoot at all this afternoon.”

Their common ground compass always can point at George. “Don’t remind me.”

“Said his interview went well, though,” Paul continues. “That’ll make the fifth press run we’ve done. So far, so good.”

Paul’s tone of voice reminds him so much of Brian’s job — always finding a proper spot for all Beatle-kind. He doesn’t know whether to mock Paul for this, or find comfort in filling the missing black hole. Mostly, it makes his insides wriggle.

“Everything’s going to work out.” Paul nods his head, steady as granite. But John wonders if all that sure-ness is a sure thing as he watches Paul bite his thumb nail.

“Course it will,” John says, with some shine on top. He knows what Paul needs to hear. “We’re the Beatles, aren’t we?”

And like clock-work, Paul beams brilliantly, teeth and all, and he almost feels the urge to blink back from all that sunshine. He said the same thing when Brian died… _we’re still the Beatles_. Really, all you have to do is say the word ‘Beatles’ and Paul practically creams his pants.

Butter up, butter-cup. Silly to forget how Paul’s pulse beats.

“Third propaganda film of your career Mr. McCarthy… _oh I’m sorry…_ Mr. McCartney… how do you plan to spend the all the money and hookers?” He circles closer, holding a pretend microphone in Paul’s face. “All the acclaim must be quite hard to handle for a young director.”

“It’s no trouble, no trouble. There were plenty of hookers in the film, I suppose we’ll just mail the rest home,” Paul speaks into the folded fist, playing along. Happy golden face.

John takes a rather large step, and he’s standing square between his legs. “Send the rest home, hm? It’s not a bad idea.”

Paul raises an eyebrow, and leans back on the bed. “Thought you were happy to have your own room.”

“This one’s nicer.”

“They’re exactly the same, John.”

“No, they’re not.”

John is crashing down; knees bent as he knocks between Paul’s thighs. He’s already melting into him when Paul breathes out, “Right, then.”

He feels him yield completely, the soft plains of their bellies comfortably resting. But John craves more and more, and pushes forward, grateful how Paul's legs widen to welcome him, even as their feet dangle off the bed.

Quick-minded, his tongue digs into the crook of Paul’s neck, dragging along his thump-thump pulse. Paul exhales shaky like a cigarette cloud, tilts his neck, and arches into the rhythm with a tight grip curled around his shoulders. John instantly grows hard and presses his hips down, blood sizzling, as he grinds back and forth, and feels Paul’s erection wake up against his own.

Momentarily, he finds it astounding how this is another way they can communicate, their bodies calling out just like they would in the studio. The pressure of their cocks dragging warmly along one another. Why don’t they do this every bleeding day?

Paul makes a noise, the strangled kind, that has John wanting to crawl inside his body and live forever, and he echoes a returning moan before slanting his mouth over Paul’s — kissing him bluntly, licking his way between lips as they open for him. Paul sucks on his tongue gently. They both grind helplessly, the old bed obnoxiously creaking in unison, gripping each other as if they haven’t been laid in days. Even though they’ve knocked over a few of the models who followed like mindless ants.

“I’m not coming in my pants,” John eventually wheezes, and pulls up on his palms. “Take off your clothes.”

“I don’t know if that makes you real young or real old.” Paul’s mouth looks extra red, as he traces his jaw. “Is that a spot, or a wrinkle?”

“Screw you.” 

“Think I’d rather do that,” Paul says, squeezing around him with his thighs. 

But ha-ha, John already has a game-plan. Serves Paul right for thinking too much about work.

He grips Paul’s neck, and crushes his lips to his open mouth once more, and he can feel Paul pant as their tongues stroke warm and wet over each other. Burning from head to toe, he grasps Paul’s pointy shoulders, and rips off the vest and the blue-button-up they sometimes share. He’s skinnier. They both were. Perhaps from the steady diet of drugs, or lack of shit food from touring, but like a second puberty they went from round-mop-tops to waspy. 

Paul hurriedly sheds his pants, _ah_ such team-effort, _but speaking of drugs_ , a tiny white bag falls out of his pocket. Paul makes a little ‘aha!’ noise at the discovery, while standing in his ratty Y-fronts. 

_Fucking cute,_ John watches with irksome softness, but aren’t they rich as sin? Surely, he can afford nicer underwear.

John removes his own shirt, and watches Paul finger the powder, sniffing it with a scrunch of his nose, not even bothering to line it up like a proper junkie. He could only be whatever version he wanted in his Paul-ish my-road-or-the-high-road-brain. Not like himself… who’d been gobbling LSD like candy for breakfast. 

Paul holds the bag out to him, with a sharing smile, and then a casual roll of his shoulders when John shakes his head.

“Thought you were done with that?” He points to his nose.

“Ah, I don’t feel any which way ‘bout it. Can take it or leave it, y’know.” Paul shrugs.

“Weren’t we givin’ the heavy shit up for a bit? With the mediation and all?” John frowns.

“I’m not meditating right now, am I?” he chirps. “It’s just a wee hit. Got it from one of the blokes today at Porth.”

He tries not to consider it… Paul coking-out before fucking. Maybe he should threaten to tell George on him, after all he takes the Yogi Master’s guidelines the most seriously. Then again, that’ll only have them giggling. George isn’t good sex talk, anyway.

John reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tube of lube, _fuck a rhyme_ , and squirms out of his pants.

“Carry that around just in case?” Paul looks amused.

“Never know,” John says, and drops to his knees in front of him. Reaching up, he struggles to pull down Paul’s underwear, ratty-holey-scraps, and the offending garment gets caught on his erection.

“Bloody hell, John, careful.” Paul’s hands hover, helping, and finally they’re both naked.

John grabs handfuls of thighs and round backside, squeezing, and pulling him as close as possible. Craning his neck, his wets his parting lips, and flicks a tongue softly against Paul’s cock. Paul sighs, feathering fingers through his hair.

Gazing upward, he sees Paul’s eyes are already lost. John continues licking, while his spare hand pops open the lube, he slows to pour cool gel onto fingers. His hand stretches around Paul’s arse, before crooking his fingers along the sensitive skin deep under. There’s a pause as Paul tenses, but then he pushes forward into John’s slacked-jaw mouth. He opens wide for him and bobs his head, once, twice, before flattening his tongue at the head, and sucks rhythmically.

He grips the base where his mouth can't reach. And it's helpful for leverage as his other fingers, busy, inch their way inside Paul, and when he curls them, Paul hisses. “Ah fuck, John.” His scalp stings from the imprint of Paul’s nails, and everything turns suffocating when one of Paul’s legs hook around his back, thrusting deeper into his face.

John breathes unevenly through his nose, and tries not to choke. He attempts a steady tempo on both ends, and grips Paul for dear life. _Lay back and think of England_ , a Hamburg whore once laughingly advised him. _Keep your mind busy, Englander_. He’d rather think of how he and Paul got here.

He remembers them as lads, and wishes he could borrow some of the ease. When they wanked in bedrooms, before deciding maybe it wasn’t too queer to rub against each other for relief. What's a tug between friends? Paris was two full weeks of that babied magic. Both so unbearably randy they hardly needed a conversation, aside from an occasionally panicked “you’re not goin’ to tell anyone ‘bout this, right?” before rutting back into each other’s hips.

Despite how joyously uncomplicated it’d been, easy and fresh and no one to impress, he wouldn’t trade it for this rabid thing they have now. Even with how crazy it drives him.

Because for all the times he tossed one off with Paul, it’d taken longer before catching a graze of those lips. Funny as hell how they did all that before even kissing. He feels a similar longing now… the unspeakable urge to shout _what is this, Paul, what are we doing? Where are we going?_ But he’s shouldn’t. It’s one of the stupid, unspoken rules. The kind that makes Paul moody and odd if he broaches the lines.

“Alright,” John pulls off him, hoarse and breathless. “Turn…”

“That’s… not goin’ to cut it.” Paul looks wild, mouth loose. Pupils blown wide. “I’m not sitting on ice-bag tomorrow. We have too much shit to do.”

He nods, and picks up the lubricant, before crashing into Paul, tangling him stomach-first into the mattress. Once ready, his fingers nudge their way back inside, bent at the knuckles, and Paul’s spine vibrates against his chest. “ _Ah_.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. His adrenaline spikes, and he’s so painfully hard he might explode, tries to avoid rubbing against Paul’s arse in order to stop from blowing his guts right here and now.

John thinks of how they went from wanking all the way to fucking. He’d been annoyed ever since one evening — locked in a room with Paul, and he made all the right moves, both of them happily drunk. Shit, it had it been too long. Suddenly, there was a quick knock on the door and an informative rasp from outside, “Some birds are downstairs.” And Paul, the traitor, whipped his head back and gave him a dreamy smile, before clamoring away. When he noticed John’s bitter face he sighed logically, “C’mon ye’ numpty, wouldn’t you rather somethin’ more than head?” He guessed there was some improvement — once upon a time, Paul flushed beet red if John mentioned their coupling out loud, and now look at him making bent jokes before squaring off to sniff after some door-delivered skirt. John should have been dead proud.

But instead, he considered Paul’s words, and he was right. John did want _more_. Tooth-ache like a sweets-craving. When they finally seemed to head in that direction, appearing like the smell of wet air before it rains, how he sensed any change in their relationship, John broached the topic cautiously. After all, it was his job in their partnership to shake all the inhuman rules. Always the perverted one… at least in the outspoken kind of way. Paul’s choirboy mask just another one of his facades.

“What?” Paul said, wide eyed, the next time John held him in his clutches. “And why you?” Of course, his ego would be offended, before being properly scandalized.

“Well, I’m the oldest,” John said, laughing, because that sort of thing would have worked years ago.

“I didn’t know you were so keen on buggery.” Paul grimaced. A bit of shock had lingered around his eyes, like he wanted to pop out a ‘John’ folder and trail a long finger over the notes, thinking ‘ _Hm, I wasn’t expecting this result for another few months.’_

“And what are you, my jury?” he sighed. “S’not such a big commotion. It’s just another _fuckin’_ thing.” He laughed at his purposeful pun, and felt glimmering satisfaction seeing Paul’s smile twist — the lad always fell hard for his word play.

“Maybe I should be,” Paul said, with a hint of teasing, which was always a hopeful sign. “It is illegal, y’know.”

“Says your bag of dope,” he snorted. He hid behind a joking tone, not wanting to spook him, because Paul was quick to get weird and flighty.

Prick-ass-Paul who ditched that cozy Beatles flat to get sucked off by the Asher family at Wimpole Street — John watched it in slow motion from his own apartment with Cyn; their newlywed pad hidden like a cave. And then Paul skipped out on them, too. John wonders if he’s as jealous as Mrs. Asher watching him smooth talk other mothers.

Just like how Paul tripped on acid with poor-dead-laughingly-departed Tara Browne, not bothering to wait for him, or any of their Beatles folks, despite asking all year round. That one still hurt like an unhealed scab. He shouldered a little laugh because it was true, Paul literally was a bleeding scab. John couldn’t remember exactly when he’d fallen so hard — _fucking Elvis hair baby face, then suddenly alarmingly grown and wise, but still the same git, affectionally so_ — and now he can’t stop picking at the scab, bloody on his knees.

John had waited and watched as Paul’s face shift in deep thought.

“I guess… s’long as it’s not my arse, I _guess_ …” Paul trailed off. The twat probably thinking he sounded like the part of graceful diplomat. But if this was how he would reel Paul in, he’d bow to his way. It still felt like the sweet adrenaline kick of victory. So, he handed the leash to Paul like they often switched back and forth, _there ya’ go old boy, take the lead._

Mostly, it just felt strange before it got good. Ridiculously good. Paul larger than life over him. There was a warm cloud of safety that accompanied being fucked. A feeling he always knew he desired. And soon, so soon, it was as if John found a missing cloak he’d been searching after — for years and years and years. The perfect fit of them together; home beside one another; and bloody hell how did they not do this sooner? 

Quickly, it turned into any other high John chased in his life — like screwing birds, hounding booze, popping pills. The need for Paul, _always_. Even worse than before — he thought he’d drown in the want. A strangling ache to be as close as possible. And of course, inevitably, alongside that want came the uncontrollable urge to turn his partner on as well. They have to be equal… the same level of openness. 

_“I’d love to turn you on…”_

John knew how to get the job done. He did it just like he excluded him from LSD — “You won’t get it until you try, the experience, you wouldn’t _understand_.” He watched, fascinated, as Paul’s eyes narrowed. The lad always hated being called a square. Maybe it was cowardly of him, John later recollected as he usually did about all his bad habits, but at the time he was so desperate, body surging, just to be inside Paul. To feel him all around. To finally be the same.

When Paul caved, much quicker than his long decision to take LSD, and maybe it was because it was soon after their first acid trip together, John rejoiced in ecstasy how Paul finally trusted him completely. He tried to be soft and grateful, and not greedily thump away like a heated jackrabbit as he curved over him, but lowering into Paul felt so good, _so right_ , John thought his eyes would burst and he’d realize it was only a fevered hallucination. But it wasn’t. Paul was letting him do this.

He’d never felt more centered. Asides from listening to Paul groan miserably into the carpet. “You fuckin’ liar. This… _ugh_ , this doesn’t feel good, at all.”

Hell, was that the only thing Paul ever wanted — to feel good? An easy end? To simply run dick-first through a crowd of a hundred easy girls. Wouldn’t he rather feel wholly held, wholly together, always?

“Relax,” John said, and gentled into an almost stilled pace, like a serpent in the sand. “Y’have to fuckin’ relax. Just trust me.” And soon, warmth spread slow like spooned sugar. Paul panting out of breath, out of his mind, meeting up to match his movements. Everything _was_ good. Well, as good as one could hope.

So, what if Paul wants to snort a white cloud before this?

So, what if he’s going home to Cynthia and Paul to Jane after this Mystery Tour is over?

So, what if they’d been practically living on and off together since recording their last album?

Jane far away on her miraculously timed acting stint. He could have cried when he heard the news. Paul disgruntled and needy, slagging her off to him — “Can you believe that? She said it could take six bloody months!” Yet, none of that anger seeped into the music that time around. Not a single bitter love song, because I’m-fucking-Paul-McCartney-and-how-the-fuck-could-a-girl-not-pay-attention-to-me.

Nope, they simply made high-as-balls-bliss. Reminiscing about their home. Instead, they got “Getting Better,” and it was all the time, wasn’t it? Couldn’t it? It wasn’t getting any worse, at least.

Especially now…. since he’s got Paul in his hands. He positions over him, dick eager as ever, already wriggling halfway inside. “Fuck,” Paul moans, muscles relaxing around him. John rocks his hips tightly, arching them forward, one leg planted firm on the ground. His other leg bent angularly on the edge of the bed, where Paul was pretzeled tight underneath him, spread wide on his knees and elbows.

“Made it,” John gasps, feeling the victory of his pelvis thump _smack_ against Paul’s sweaty skin.

“Congratulations,” Paul sounds muffled by blanket. “I’ll send you a drink for your troubles.”

“Too late for a drink.” Thighs stretch thin against the back of Paul’s when he bumps back into him; the fuzz of his dark hairy legs lessening the burn. He can’t hear the next thing Paul says. The incredible pressure clenched around his cock numbs his thoughts like cotton-brain.

Foggy words lay underneath his lazy thrusts. “Can you... keep…”

“What?” John cracks an eye open, and leans forward, over his shoulder. “What’re you rattlin’ on ‘bout?”

“Just...” he pants. Impatient, Paul grabs his hand, prying it from the hold on his hips, and places it between his legs, just enough room between his dick and the bed, where John palms his hardness, still damp from his mouth. They’re like a sandwich — mattress, hand, dick, Paul, dick, _him_. Side of pickle.

But he obeys, and tugs softly in a fluid motion, from base, _ha-ha-ha bass player’s base,_ to sliding up and running a tight thumb over the tip. Paul’s breath quickens, and he immediately surges forward, thrusting into the friendly hand.

John thinks it's _nice to feel helpful_ , but soon, too soon, he misses the arch of Paul’s back and the unbelievably tight fit, and so he repositions once more and bears his hips further down; sinking deep into Paul. _Warm_ , John’s mind calls out. _So warm._ Paul takes the hint, ever the steady ear, and slowly rolls backward into John’s rhythm. Quickly they find the perfect tempo, voices joined like always, and who could expect less from their timing. Fucking masters, they are. 

John’s stomach and heart fuse together; plunging to the sparkling pleasure deep below. Fuck, they’re so alive. He’s so happy, so happy Paul is here with him. In gratitude, he redoubles his efforts on Paul’s dick, the pull now easily timed with their quickening pace, bending back-and-forth like a ride on a rocking chair, and he’s rewarded with a long moan in response.

John listens carefully to all the chirpy sounds coming from Paul’s mouth. How Paul, who usually is so in control, can barely make out the right words.

“Ah,” Paul chokes in a funny voice. “That’s… _there_ … keep there.” Paul, goal-oriented always, rises from his elbows and presses down on his palms, pushing harder against John.

 _There, there, there_. It’s a song, they’re always forming a song. John knows he found the spot, deep within, little hot button that Paul would never have known to press if it weren’t for him.

“There now,” John rasps, groaning along. He feels all-powerful. High in the sky. It’s almost as wonderful as burning through writer’s block, and discovering purpose.

When was the last time he felt this much power? Composing “All You Need is Love,” their latest number one? Fucking Paul? The seashore of women who wash in and out of tide, shimmery like gold, seem increasingly unreachable; crashing along his ankles before hurriedly pulling back; he can hardly graze them. 

He clings to this idea, as he grips Paul harder and blankets himself fully over his shoulders. And summoning all rhythm he can, like a string of la-la-la's or sha-na-na's, he rocks repeatedly into that spot. He wants Paul to know it’s him it’s him it’s him it’s him, please, please, _please_.

Paul lets out a frantic sound. “Fuck… oh fuck…” Helplessly, he slides faster into the hand on his dick, unable to do much more as his body bounces against John. Paul’s arms tremble as pleasure bursts inside him, and curls his body inward like a fallen, crisping leaf. His head drops, boneless, where he can see John bucking into him below.

Without asking, John knows the vivid sight simultaneously frightens and arouses him. John feels the twin energies radiating off the man, unsure of which reaction is winning. Paul is such a a fork in the road — a two in one package deal. He wishes he _could_ see his face, so he might know for sure Paul won’t stay frightened. To see his fear come in one wave, before passing through — to see this is enough for Paul as it is for him. They really should fuck face-to-face more, and at the idea, John kisses along his cheek, and he still feels the old thrill when Paul turns to meet his lips, even at the odd angle.

Emboldened, he tightens an arm underneath Paul’s chest, seeking leverage and harsher friction, and rocks harder, almost there, the high drop waiting to reward him at the end.

“Oh,” Paul's mouth suddenly breaks away, and he moans, his hands tightly clutching the blanket underneath him. John feels a tremor zig-zag through Paul, and then he’s shuddering into John’s hand, coming all over himself. “ _Oh.”_

John is close behind, jolting the bed harshly once, twice, before clenching upward, digging his nails into Paul for dear life. He's always loud at the end, coming hard, breathing like he just lost his voice in the studio.

When he lands back on earth, moon feet and all, he feels the body below him tense. Paul is squirming politely away from the too tight grasp. And John, who holds the desire to be one body, one soul, one everything — doesn’t fucking care if Paul is two loonies in one, the more the merrier — loosens his iron grip. Instead, he frantically tries to be soft, so soft, so Paul _, Paul…_

Distantly, he realizes he’s calling the name out loud. Shit. John forces himself to stops, as a sharp pang of embarrassment cuts through him. They never do over-the-top sentimental. _Nothing too far-fetched for them, no sir, just simple fucking,_ he thinks with a twist of irony. 

But Paul simply laughs. “Sounds like a song, that does.”

“I’ll be sure to get George on it right away,” John sighs, and then coughs — knowing he’d get an elbow jab for that.

Next, it’s his turn to laugh as their bodies untangle and Paul awkwardly hovers, as he always does, like he’s still surprised how messy sex with a man can be. “Here.” John reaches for a shirt, _not the blue one they share_ , and motions to clean him.

“I’ll do it,” Paul complains, and snatches the shirt. “I’m a bloody grown up, aren’t I?”

“Suppose ye’ are,” John says, watching endearingly as Paul clumsily cleans himself from front to backside.

Paul’s pupils are blown wide and it makes him look cartoonish, like a figment from the sillier side of his imagination. A loopy doodle he might sketch. It’s a funny thought — Paul in his imagination. An imaginary friend. He had many of them as a child, or so Mimi told him. “Your little friend is here,” she’d say whenever Paul came knocking with a cheap, backwards, right-handed guitar in tow. “I turn it upside down, ye see?” the left-handed git informed anyone who snickered at him, like a fairytale, or a dream, spinning the world on his own sense. Dead mum, sad song, but cheer on, fucking Paul.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, the idea sort of makes sense. How Paul popped up out of nowhere. And if he was imaginary, there’d be no misery. Then again, he also wouldn’t be real flesh and blood to share his own skin in. Not so warm. 

John is irritated he can’t decipher if Paul’s eyes are so wide because of the cocaine, or because of the shag _._ Paul twitches, and turns over to sit on the ruined bed. It might be the coke.

“Ease up there, cadet.” John flicks his chin, and Paul blinks heavily. “Let’s have a ‘laugh’ so you can actually get some sleep.”

“What’s your excuse for being so awake?”

“Guess you didn’t tire me out… maybe you’re not as good as the birds say?” John says, teasing. “I always have them sleeping right after a shag.”

“More like mid-shag,” Paul says, giggling loudly. “So, I’ve heard.”

“That was _one_ time. And she said beforehand she might fall asleep.”

“Excuses, son, excuses.” He tsks-tsks-tsks, waggling his finger fast in the air.

John shakes his head. He opens the nightstand drawer, and low and behold, a spot of pot is hiding under a book. “Damn, I should have been bizzy.”

Two shared joints later, and Paul is snoring against the pillow. John folds the blanket around them, and tries thinking over the scenes they’ll be shooting tomorrow. He should have asked before Paul clonked out. He’d know the plans.

* * *

Sometimes, this project feels more like an expensive home movie. John wonders how many times they’ll be filmed while eating. Mostly, it’s lunch. But… there’s something grisly cinematic about lunch. It’s probably the reek of bad timing. Afternoons were always his witching hour. Caught-murky-in-between.

He’s locked in Paul’s room once more, after shooting lunch, and he’s spread soft on the bed like soft cheese on toast.

“There should be a shag in the film.”

Paul cracks open an eye, he’s sweaty and rumpled, with a mess of hair across his forehead. “Television’s first time.”

John laughs. “Yeah, it’d be monumental. Maybe with the little man and one of the girls. I’d like to see how that’s done.”

“Go ask,” Paul says, nudging him. “Hey, you goin’ to the pub with us tonight? Rich is itchin’.”

“Filming it?”

“Nah, think not. It’s just for some fun.”

Fun, eh? It’s something he’d done countless times. Pubbing around the pubs with Paul. Dirty and messy and brilliant, like post-shag-hair. But the merry-go-round of life screeches they already stepped off at that stop. And why go to such a place if fans are just going to crowd and form a cult around you? Sticky-beer-shoes and a million bug eyes. He can already imagine captn' Paul leading the drunken room, banging away on piano, everyone raising a glass. For some reason, steadily growing, John doesn't think he fits inside that picture.

“Don’t think so.”

“Old.” Paul winks, and slinks out of bed to pick up his clothes.

“And what’s your hurry? Expecting a call from the prime minister?” But Paul dressing makes him want to be just as covered, and he reaches for his own pants.

“Nah, just Jane. Reckon she’s as busy though,” Paul says, and laughs. But it’s not his nice one, the one that sounds like sleigh bells.

“Off to delight her with tales of the country?” John adds for some lightness, putting on old country accent. “Rolling hills and weeds?”

“No,” he snickers. “But speaking off, oh great mind reader, we’re planning a long holiday in the country soon.”

“What?” John’s accent falls.

“To Scotland.” Paul nods. “We like it in High Park, so she’s scheduling things ahead before work, and India.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Oh, probably ‘round a month or so.”

He still hasn’t seen the Scotland farm Paul purchased. The one Jane convinced him to buy… though _he_ educated Paul about Scotland _first_ …

“Jane?” John asks again, as if he forgot who’s there, like wearing smudgy-shit-sight glasses. “You really still on about her?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Paul’s eyebrows furrow.

 _Maybe because you two have nothing real anymore,_ John wants to say. _Just like me and Cynthia_. Sometimes he doesn’t understand Paul. It’s not like he’s the one stuck in a marriage. Paul still goes around fucking every girl he wants, and with one quick phone call his responsibility to Jane could easily be finished. There wouldn’t a messy entanglement of money and property and the kid.

 _Shit father, shit husband…_ he knows it, he does. Another reason it’s gotten so hard to look his family square in the eye… probably circle and triangle, too. 

“Y’want to go on another trip before shippin’ off to Mr. Maharishi?”

“There’ll be plenty of time.” He shrugs, clueless. “Never stopped any of us from traveling, either.”

“You might not be in the best state of mind afterwards, for meditating, what with the fighting…”

“We don’t fight all the time,” Paul snaps. 

“Sure, fine.” John grunts. “You’re cleaning house. I get it, believe me.”

There’s a long pause, and Paul sits next to him. “I _do_ want to keep things going between us.”

For a quick moment “us” steamrolls over him. But a second after, he realizes it’s about Jane. 

“She’s goin’ to leave again, if I don’t do somethin’ quick. And all the girls are going to India… she has to go, too, I can't go alone.”

“You won’t, I’ll be there.” Deciding to be bold, tossing away any leftover shyness, he quirks a suggestive eyebrow.

Paul pulls a face. “That’s not what I meant.”

Hell, even in foolery they can’t slide by — John almost wants to reach out and smack him (knows he won’t, can’t, he’s never hit Paul). But the nerve of this bloke. He’s about to tell the bastard to sod off, except Paul’s face has gotten all sad and red. Screw the dark Irish, they really know how to pull-off misery with their murky-green eyes. 

_Fucking addict_ , he thinks, he is, he knows.

“Y’don’t understand.” Paul pulls at his dark hair. “The whole ‘lot of you are married already. Y’have kids, you don’t get it.”

"Being married isn't so..." John trails off, feeling more depressed mentioning his marriage. But he watches Paul's eyes grow soft with sympathy — he must know how nonexistent things are between him and Cyn. "I thought you didn't want to get married, thought you wanted to be the bachelor Beatle forever. Who else can we throw to the vultures?"  
  
Paul laughs. "That can't go on forever. Eventually they won't be asking 'when' I'm getting married, but 'why not' and... I _want_ to now, it's just with Jane..."

In moments like these, he feels the gulf of their age, or at least their experiences. Strange pot he’s stuck in with Paul: brother, lover, and sometimes switching as each other’s father. John guesses it’s what he partly deserves for stealing Paul from his real father, and hell he’s never deeply known his own. He sighs, says a little mantra, and summons all the sage wisdom he can, without exposing his real desire — that Paul stay just as he is — no different. Half boy, half man, half his.

 _Bloody hell, what’s wrong with me,_ John ponders. _Only parents don’t want their kids to grow up._ Maybe he’s some twisted version of that. He feels like that poor bugger who authored Peter Pan, the one without bollocks or whatever, never grew up himself, and wrote about a gang of boys running away together.

He clears his throat. “Cradles and shit will come, Paul. They always do… and you’ve jumped through this ring before, right? No reason to let that get you down ‘cause you’ll be singin’ your regrets later, when the storm clouds open up and babies are floodin’ down on you.”

Paul makes a disgruntled noise. “Nicely put. Rainfall isn't always a bad thing. Not now, anyway.”

“Ah, laddie,” John jests, and curls a sympathetic hand to his shoulder. “But time and all that crap. Why can’t you ever take a breath on one thing? Why do you always need ten projects?”

“Because sometimes everythin’ turns so _bizarre_ … I just… I want somethin’ _real_ , I suppose. A family like…”

But John doesn’t hear the rest. He pulls his hand from Paul’s shoulder as quickly as if it fell on a stove top.

Real, huh. Real love.

If he wants to keep any preservation of sanity, maybe he should just stop talking to Paul. Maybe they should just fuck with headphones on. Wave to each other behind a glass wall. Mime helpful words to each other’s new songs. He is so mad, so in love, so heart sick on both. Whenever he doesn’t know how to act, doesn’t know what to do with his useless hands, anger jumps forward ready to save him. Ready to bruise.

“Makes sense, I suppose. Bizarre could be the word for it,” John agrees, nodding his head severely. “I guess that’s what we get for havin’ two queers in the band. Tad bizarre, is right.”

“What?” Paul whips his head. “We’re _not_.

It’s still funny, ha-ha-ha funny, how Paul feels the need to include him in that mess. It always seems important to him they’re both the same level of ‘not queer.’ But John’s discovered the quickest wound available, and he wants to dig the knife in deeper. 

“Paul, I don’t know if you know this,” he starts in a condescending voice, the kind you’d use on a child, _like the twenty fucking children Paul wants,_ and waits for the immediate effect as he watches Paul’s eyes narrow. “But when two blokes enjoy each other _very_ much…” John sing songs in the ‘birds and bees’ talk. Not that he had much experience, Mimi had been shit at all that. 

“You’re being a right-prick," Paul says, leaning away. "Not hearin’ me at all. And that’s different…”

“That’s _what_ it is.”

“Well, then I’m different.”

“Oh, big fellar? Too much of a man, but not enough of one to stop himself from buggering. Funny, thought I'd never say it, but maybe Brian had more balls than us and he didn't even dig fucking.”

“I’m not…” Paul stands up, face flushed red. “I’m not listening to this. You’re talkin’ ‘rot, talkin’ nonsense.”

“Whose nonsense, mate? Mine or yours?”

Paul makes a disgusted noise, and heads for the door. And there goes the last bit of John’s self-control.

“Fucking coward!” he shouts, as he listens to Paul flee down the hall.

Later, he finds no comfort in George politely knocking on his door, asking if he’s heading to the pub.

“Nope.” 

“Me either, I think some mediation would be a better way to end the day. There’s been too much frivolity.”

George smiles and looks around his room, but it’s empty… like how everything he knows is empty, empty, empty, and the sickly ooze in John’s stomach bubbles once more.

“Well, go do it somewhere else.” And John slams the door.

He spent the rest of the night between frustrating stretches of sleep. Paul and the rest don’t return until after two in the morning. He hears their jolly drunk voices, before footsteps shuffle away. When doors start shutting, he pulls his blanket tighter around him. But when he closes his eyes, he still sees Paul’s face in the darkness. Momentarily, he considers lighting a smoke to turn off his brain, ticking like a clock, deafening and horrible, but before he can help his sorry self, he’s tiptoeing down the hall and knocking on Paul’s door.

“Can I bunk in here?”

Paul cranes his head to the empty hallway, and nods. But his lips are tight.

He has to apologize, or Paul will be too quiet. And he can never stomach that kind of pale energy, not when he feels like jumping out of his skin.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he blurts out.

“Then why’d you say it?”

John shakes his head. “I say half-arse things. Can’t help me’self.”

“Yeah, I know,” Paul sighs, apparently _knowing_. “But feel free not practice that skillset on me.”

“It’s just, I’m so…” He cradles his arms, worriedly. “Sometimes, I just want to make sure you’re not disappearing, like all the rest. It makes me… I, I can’t see straight.”

Paul looks up at those words, lifts a hand from his eyes, and smiles like when pretending he isn’t queasy from a plane-ride _(I’m fine, I’m fine_ ). Paul and his flimsy stomach. 

“You never can see with those eyes, ‘anyroad.”

John exhales slowly. “I’m not fuckin’ about. I hate it.”

“Ah, Johnny.” Paul makes a comforting noise, his voice real and reassuring, and John _aches_ so hard he might burst. “Everything's going to be _alright_. It’s not as if I’m going anywhere…” Paul says, stepping closer to watch him carefully, as if he’s trying to examine the long-wire inside John’s brain.

_I’m right here, Paul, I’m right here._

“Wait,” Paul falters. “Was this about my trip? I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I just thought maybe you should know,” John quietly explains, not quite sure if he sounds like he’s making sense, even to his own ears. “I’m with you, you know.”

“Well,” Paul says, tenderly. “Course I’m with you, too. We’re partners, genius. Or did you forget?”

But his stomach still dips, and he wants to shake him, and shout _“and, and, and, and?”_

John feels the woozy splendor you’d get as a child when finally admitting to a crime that was tearing you up inside — like taking a pocket knife to your Aunt’s favorite wooden table, _it was me, it was me,_ but this has none of the gratifying aftermath, of momentary pain, then pleasure in your absolution. He’s stuck in the foggy middle, stuck like lunchtime.

He surveys Paul’s downcast eyelashes, fanning long against his cheek, and he wants to reach over and trace them, but he has a terrible sensation he might cry if he does.

“Maybe you’ll feel better once we get home.”

“Home…” John says ambiguously, unsure what that truly means.

“Finish filming, y’know? The album,” Paul sighs, sounding weathered.

It had been the longest year for them. The whirlwind of Sgt. Pepper. The mouthwatering acclaim of look-Beatles-are-modern-day-Mozart-they-are, as Paul moved to bright center stage of the loud applause, _fucking Brian,_ still reeling from the loss, and now this film that seems way, way over their heads. Every room they enter getting bigger and bigger, and Paul farther and farther away.

“And then India,” Paul reminds him, reaching out to tug on his sleep shirt. “Imagine that.”

John does — imagining a simple dusty tent with Paul, with all their mates, away from the terrible chaos. Together, looking for the meaning of life. Maybe they’ll finally catch whatever it is, and cup it, precious-like, between their hands.

“Right,” he agrees, enjoying the pretty picture, seeing himself clearly visible this time, and he inhales a breath. “That’ll be somethin’.”


End file.
